


come in where it's warm and dry

by jesseofthenorth



Series: I can't stand the rain [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Cussing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson keeps on saving his ass, but Clint's jeans are  goners</p>
            </blockquote>





	come in where it's warm and dry

**Author's Note:**

> Follows directly after 'Rain, Down On Me'
> 
> Written for the 'undresssing each other' square on my my non-sexual intimacy ccbingo card.

Once they are moving Coulson asks him “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad,” Clint lies. It's too dangerous to stop now, he can hold on until they are safer.

The inside of the car is warm and dry and perfect and it feels like seconds before he starts to nod off. He doesn't have a firm grip on the passage of time though, it could be longer.

It always happens this way when he starts getting warm again. The heat seeps in and his brain shuts down.

Clint snaps awake when the car makes a sharp turn and his head thumps against the window. He sees the safe house, but he can't remember if it's still safe.

Coulson gets out of the car and Hawkeye figures that's his cue to do the same. He fumbles with door handle, trying to make his hand work. That may be the bad idea of _all_ bad ideas because fuck it hurts. Clint changes his approach and reaches across with his left arm. That at least works even if it still hurts like a bastard.

It takes all the strength he has to get the door open, and then Coulson is there reaching inside to grab Clint's arm.

“Idiot” Coulson says almost gently, and tucks his shoulder under Clint's good arm. It is all Clint can do to keep from falling the fuck over, so he lets Coulson do all the work, concentrates on not making noises like a kicked dog.

Coulson drags him into the house. It's a simple stucture: bathroom, bedroom, and a main room that's everything else in one place. Small and innocuous like every other house around them, it it even has the requisite number of bullet holes in the outside walls. A perfect place to stay under the radar.

They hope so anyway, because if it isn't they're both going to be fucked.

Coulson must have three hands all of a sudden, because he's holding Clint up, pulling a sidearm and opening the door all at the same time. It occurs to Clint he might be a little out of it. Especially when he realizes he's on the sofa with no recollection of getting there.

“Idiot,” Coulson says again and Clint might start taking that personally except now Coulson is pulling his jacket off and son of a bitch does that fucking hurt. He can't help the hurt sound that escapes but it's okay because Coulson is talking to him then.

“Easy Barton. Take it easy. Let me get this off, see what the damage is.”

Clint remembers the chunk that was blown out of his side. He moves his arm as much as he can trying to help Coulson out but the pain rips through him, a fiery spike driven in one side and all the way out the other, as if he'd been impaled. A hand holds his arm, supporting it while his jacket, his butter soft brown leather jacket that Clint had dragged all over the world, is carefully removed. Clint lets his head tip back in relief when thats done and he 's down to just a t-shirt.

“Fuck,” he hears Coulson say. That sounds about right, because fuck it hurts and fuck what a mess, and he might just be fucked. They both might.

Clint rolls his head to the side thinking he'll get a look at the damage but everything weighs a thousand pounds and all he can see is the back of Coulson's head. He's is bent over Clint, leaning in close to do what ever it is he's doing that is making every thing pulse with pain.

“Hurts,” Clint slurs.

“I know,” Coulson says quietly and presses harder.

Clint's grateful Coulson doesn't apologize. Clint couldn't take it if Phil was sorry. That makes it better somehow, knowing Phil will simply do what needs to be done. It's better if Coulson is matter of fact and capable.

Clint feels something cold and metallic press against his hip and for one panicked moment he thinks its a knife.

“I have to get these off,” Coulson explains “I can't reach all the damage.”

Clint looks down to the source of the cold. There are a pair of scissors poised.

“I need to cut them.” Coulson waits for permission or acknowledgment, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice. It occurs to Clint that his handler might be in a hurry.

“My favorite jeans” Clint says regretfully.

“I'll make Fury spring for a new pair” Coulson says taking it for permission and starts to quickly and (of course) efficiently cut through the fabric.

Clint feels a deeper pang of regret for the loss of a perfectly broken in pair of jeans than he does for the acquisition of a new scar. He's got lots of scars, whats one more? He's only got one pair of favorite jeans. Black vintage Bootleggers he bought at a thrift sore for fifteen dollars. Can't just go out and get a new pair.

“And I can't just go pick up a new archer at Walmart.” Coulson tells him.

Clint realizes he said that out loud and the thought scares him a little, that he is so fucked that he is losing control of his mouth.

“You never had very effective control in the first place” Coulson says.

Clint snorts a laugh at that just as a needle breaks the skin and then he's biting down to keep sound in as Coulson starts stitching up the mess Clint has made of himself.

“Sorry “ Clint says and passes the fuck out.

“Idiot.” Coulson says and keeps stitching.


End file.
